Bucky's mornings always started early. It was a little easier now, with people like Wanda helping out, but he still preferred to do most of the early morning baking himself. Alone in his kitchen, while he made the bread and pastries; spending his time creating and sustaining. hHis own small way to try and atone for how much time he'd spent destroying.
By the time Hamiton came in though, most of that work was finished. Bucky's sleeves had long been rolled up and his apron was dusted with flour and the occasional splotch of jam or fruit juice. The man certainly looked much worse for wear than the last time Bucky had seen him. It wouldn't be the first or last time someone came from a far distant time or place and overdid their first few days though, so Bucky didn't say anything and just dropped a few pieces of ginger in the tea he prepared and kept the spread of butter on his toast light.
But maybe the look behind Hamilton's eyes, something that seemed more than just tired or hungover or overfull was why Bucky stayed in the front of the cafe for the next few minutes, prepping sandwiches and little grab-and-go boxes instead of going back to the kitchen to find more work to do. The man slumped onto his table with a small thud and Bucky moved quickly without rushing. He placed a hand, his flesh and blood one, on Alexander's shoulder.
"Hamilton. Are you alright?" He didn't want to rush to medical assistance if the man had simply fallen asleep but Bucky could feel how warm he was even through the layers he wore.